


Ps and Qs

by Merixcil



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Bondage, Dubious Consent, Face Slapping, Gags, Hate Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Semi-Public Sex, Spanking, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 17:29:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8455444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merixcil/pseuds/Merixcil
Summary: Alex hates Jefferson and doesn't know when to call it quits





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story about someone letting bad things be done to them and nearly giving as good as they get. Please please please read the tags and take them seriously before reading on. There is no fluff here.

Words are a super power. If you’re good enough at them you can build whole worlds, change whole minds. Topple empires. What a shame there exists no viable shield between the words we speak and the audience they find. If there were, we might not fall for poets quite so quickly.

Thomas Jefferson isn’t a poet, but he’s about as close as you’re going to get in American politics. Alex sits, silent and fuming, barely restrained by Washington’s stony gaze, and listens to the pied piper usher political capital into an open mountainside. Lambs to the slaughter, Jefferson always has someone’s lifeblood on his teeth. The man wreaks of death. He killed the British monarchy, sure, but he’s not going to stop until every other King he sees lying in the shadows is dead and gone.

“This financial plan is an outrageous demand,” Jefferson drawls. Alex’s patience snaps. He rises to his feet and talks back, losing himself in the moment. He doesn’t know where the political attacks end and the personal begin, he can only remember Washington setting a heavy hand against his chest to push him down.

Like I said, words are powerful things. If you don’t have a strong enough handle on them, they’ll overrun you.

“There there. Be a good boy now,” Jefferson’s eyes flash in triumph, straightening out his suit and making for the door.

Alex tries very hard not to think about anything other than the room he is standing in. The carpet beneath his feet, the outdated décor, the disappointment curdling on Washington’s face. He pushes away images of Jefferson’s hands peeling back the buttons of silk waistcoats and divesting his coat at the door. Not now, not here.

Later. In a shabby hotel room that charges by the hour, with disdain dripping from the roofs of their mouths. Jefferson hates the low thread count of the sheets and the mould in the bathroom. Alex thinks the company is lousy but he makes do.

“Fuck you,” Alex spits. He will not be good, not in the cabinet, not now. He is still on his feet, though shedding clothes at an alarming rate. It’s the gulf between what he wants and what he gets that does it for him, painfully aware that he will never make a particularly good return on the investment of time he pours into his every pursuit. He has been fucking Jefferson in shitty rented rooms for years, and they are no closer to a compromise.

Jefferson sits naked on the bed, his legs spread to show his cock, his stupid fucking perfect long thick juicy fat cock, standing at a lazy half-mast. Maybe if Alex attaches enough words to it, it will collapse under the pressure. Then he wouldn’t need to bother, he could go home and go to work and do his hating the easy way.

Who on Earth has time to do things the easy way? Thomas Jefferson has the world at his feet and takes a fancy to any woman in a short skirt that comes his way. Yet he still insists on being a closeted republican senator who sodomises his most bitter political rival under cover of night. Civilised debate is for cowards.

The next day there will be bruises in the shape of a silver topped cane across Alex’s thighs, the day after a burn in the shape of a cigar butt on his wrist. He has to work to cover them up, but if there’s more blood than usual between Jefferson’s teeth, no one notices. This time it’s Alex who presents his arguments clearly (though never concisely) and Jefferson who flies into a rage.

That’s the trouble, right there. The fight never ends when you’re perfectly matched. If you asked Alex to pick his weapon of choice he would pick pistols, by the dawn’s early light. Because there’s a certain romance to be found in the pages of his history books and at least then it would be over. Instead he fights Jefferson with words that never do more damage than he receives in kind, and the fight is unending.

Jefferson pulls out before Alex is done and comes all over his stomach. Alex’s ankles are bound to the bed and his wrists to each other. There’s nothing he can do but lie there squirming, trying to fire off a volley of insults around the rag in his mouth. His body is on fire, begging for release. Some sort of ending to this hell.

Half an hour later Jefferson shoves a vibrator up Alex’s ass and leaves it in when he goes to shower. It’s fucking torture. Back at college he used to complain about blue balls but Alex now knows he didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. Not having sex is boring, it’s denial that will really wear you down. He twists in the cheap motel sheets, trying to find a position that doesn’t hurt, or to flip himself over far enough to rut against the mattress.

And then what would he do? He could come and there would still be a vibrator up his ass. If he thinks he’s in pain now, he knows it’s nothing to ten minutes of overstimulation post orgasm. Jefferson emerges from the bathroom wearing nothing but the towel slung over his shoulders to catch the water dripping from his hair. He’s ridiculous, preposterous. People don’t look like that, statues do. With his abs and his biceps and his thighs and those hands and that fucking ass.

“Pathetic,” Jefferson snorts like it's funny. The fire flares in Alex's stomach, magic words and all that. 

Alex can’t speak to remind Jefferson that if the newspapers got wind of what they were doing right now it would be over for him. Alex suspects, hopes, that no one would be particularly surprised to find him tangled in the arms of a man he hates. It wouldn’t help his career, but who’s going to say they didn’t see it coming.

Like an afterthought, Jefferson tugs Alex’s dick till he comes, then sits back and watches as the vibrator keeps doing its job. Robbed of speech, Alex can do nothing but squirm for Jefferson’s amusement, angry tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. This is the worst thing, the absolute worst. When your nerves just want to be settled but you are awake and keening against a fire that should have been put out.

He’ll be back for more, tomorrow or next week or whenever. Fuck it, he’ll suck Jefferson off in the toilets next to the oval office if that’s what it takes. Maybe it’s for the best that he can’t speak around the gag, he would only say that he hates this and demand that it stop. Jefferson would raise an eyebrow and ask why he keeps coming back.

Alex shudders out a sob of relief when the vibrator is removed and thrown across the room to be found by some poor, unsuspecting cleaner in the morning. For a moment, the only thing he can process is peace.

He’s so grateful he eats Jefferson’s ass, which really ought to be a sin because the noises the man makes have to have come straight from hell itself. The way he pushes back against Alex’s tongue and groans like thunder. It’s hard to complain about the feeling of fire in your veins when Jefferson makes the flames look so decadent. To stop now would be far too easy.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alex throws a stack of papers at Jefferson’s feet and feels the eyes of the office turn on him. Jefferson spares him a glance, beady eyes peeking out of his great mop of curls for half a second before he goes back to whatever it is he does when he’s not communing with the devil.

He denies Alex a fight. Words are a superpower, withholding words is a superpower. Alex marches down the hall to scream his frustrations in Washington’s face and the President declares him furloughed for the afternoon. "Cool off. I'll see you back here bright and early tomorrow."

The press catch him brooding on the sidewalk outside the capitol. Alex marches onwards, trying to look busy, till a familiar black car pulls over and the door flies open. “Get in,” Jefferson commands.

Alex is pathetic and angry, and there is fire in his blood that he doesn’t know how to quench. He gets in and lets himself be manhandled, dragged around by his hair, bruises chewed into the skin above his pulse point. He lets himself be pushed down, mouth first, onto that perfect fucking cock. Jefferson is so big. Alex gags and gasps and asks to stop the car because he’s sure he’s going to puke.

He doesn’t puke, and the driver doesn’t flinch. Jefferson must pay him obnoxiously well to keep this shit quiet.

You could be forgiven for saying Alex knows that cock too well, but he’s got a weakness for proving just what he can do with his mouth. “If you don’t think you’re up to the challenge…”Jefferson’s eyes gleam. The game is far too easy, words are far too powerful. It’s after hours but there are still plenty of people drifting through the bullpen. Neither of them can quite manage to care. Alex drops to his knees to pray that no intern walks by to find him with a mouthful of cock.

“Sweet Jesus,” Jefferson’s breath hitches as Alex’s tongue skirts the head of his dick. That’s the exchange at play here: Jefferson commands, and Alex has him invoking God’s name in recompense.

No one catches them. No one ever catches them. Perhaps Jefferson pays everyone else to clear out of the office on the days he wants to fuck Alex’s throat at his desk. Lord knows the man has enough money to do it.

The next morning they stand before Washington, trying to argue their way in or out of foreign wars. Alex’s mouth tastes like shitty coffee from the machine down the hall, and Jefferson’s spunk. He’s surprised the room doesn’t stink of it, he can barely close his mouth to keep quiet.

“If we try to fight in every war where do we draw the line?”

“So quick witted,” Jefferson rolls his eyes like he hasn’t heard that argument a thousand times. He probably has shares in half a hundred arms companies, the money he stands to make from conflict is indecent.

Sometimes Alex is allowed the advantage, as a courtesy. Washington nods, “Hamilton is right.”

Jefferson falls like a rag doll back onto the bed. Alex never thinks to tie him up or leave him begging, he doesn’t want a weak opponent. That was never what this was about. He leaves hickeys across those perfect muscles, thinking of renaissance paintings and roman statues. He would never say as much though, that’s as far as his powers of withholding will stretch.

He wonders what Jefferson thinks of when he looks at him. Alexander Hamilton with his greasy hair and eye bags, his belly soft from takeout food and a superficial dedication to twice weekly gym visits. He probably sees a molehill, Jefferson doesn’t seem much interested in scaling mountains.

It always stings at first when Alex lets Jefferson’s cock slip up his ass. He’s never had anything this big before, doubts there’s much bigger he’ll have a chance to find. He savours the bright lights of momentary pain behind his eyes and rides Jefferson's dick like he might use it to fuck out all the right words. The biggest words, the best words, the final say. It never works of course, he melts into a shrieking, moaning mess. Desperate to come, for fire and for ice.

Jefferson lies beneath him, waits until Alex is done, then flips him over and pounds into him till the walls shake. Spits in his face, calls him a slut. Now there's a magic word if ever there was one, it leaves Alex burning with shame and desire. He's sure he never meant to find that balance so tempting. 

Madison looks at Alex like he knows everything, Angelica constantly asks if he’s ok. Alex pulls down his sleeves to be sure that no bruises are visible, keeps his tie tight and his top button done. He won’t let the evidence show. He’ll just keep letting Jefferson bend him over a desk and shove two fingers in his mouth to stop him from crying out. If they can’t work it out from that, then they don’t deserve to breathe easy.

There’s nothing particularly special about the day that Alex walks across the threshold of their hotel room for the night, and reaches for Jefferson before he reaches for the lights. It’s a strange sensation, to feel the drag of gravity between the two of them at this angle, one leaning up and the other leaning down so that they meet in the middle.

Perhaps it was supposed to be bruising, perhaps their teeth were supposed to clash and they were supposed to nip at each other’s lips. That would be familiar, tricky, justifiable in the context of everything else. But like this, their mouths are occupied simultaneously, and there are no words to be said or withheld. The power bleeds out of them, Alex can taste it on Jefferson’s teeth. He breathes out through his nose as a hand comes up to cradle the back of his neck. There is no fire here, this is so easy.

Who wants to do things the easy way? Alex is relieved by the sting of Jefferson’s palm against his cheek when they break apart. The slap centres them both.

“What the fuck?” Jefferson’s face is contorted with rage.

 _You liked it._ Alex doesn’t say, because he doesn’t give a shit about Jefferson’s feelings and he likes him better when he’s angry. He shrugs, “wanted to find out if snakes can do anything useful with those tongues of theirs.”

A handful of words and you can set a fire, it’s so damn easy. It doesn’t matter what snakes do with their tongues because Jefferson is ready to dislocate his jaw and swallow Alex whole. Their clothes rip as they fight to wrestle them from each other, they bite hard enough to draw blood, and all Alex can think about is the expression of smug victory that isn’t clouding Jefferson’s face.

Nail tracks run down both their sides. Alex knows he won’t walk straight for a week, his throat is raw and there are tear tracks staining his cheeks. There was no gag, he never asked to stop.

Jefferson reaches into the pile of scraps that had once been his suit and pulls out a spliff and a lighter. He lights up and takes a drag, holds the breath, lets the smoke out of his nose like a dragon. You gotta be careful with dangerous animals, you better run.

Alex doesn’t run. He tells himself he doesn’t have the energy.

“Good game, Hamilton.” Jefferson concedes, holding out the spliff for Alex to take.

For a moment, Alex considers saying no. Perhaps he should have done, to preserve the distance. If only the distance between the two of them meant something, if only it were quantifiable. So instead he reaches out, inhales, doesn’t say a word. It’s good hash and that’s all that really matters. It seeps into the hollowed out recesses of his brain, left by the fire, and subdues him.

The subduction is temporary, of course. He wakes up the next morning with Jefferson already digging through the remnants of their clothes for spare parts that can be used for binds and gags. Alex is so sore he can barely move to protest, and every slap Jefferson delivers to his trembling thighs is worse than the last.

 _You could tell him to stop._ Alex thinks to himself. Imagine that, a word so powerful it could put an end to this. He laughs over the wretched groaning of his lungs. As if. That would be way too easy. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments give me life. Come find me on [tumblr](http://kim--hanbins.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/chadfuture_)!


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